


The Case of a Cut Newspaper

by Plankto



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plankto/pseuds/Plankto
Summary: Herecule Poirot receives a mysterious letter, that looks like a threat message but in reality, is anything but...Written from Hastings' point of view.Translation of the French words is in End Notes.





	The Case of a Cut Newspaper

The Case of a Cut Newspaper  
I was trying to conceal my interest, as I was watching Poirot who, faitfull to his daily routine, sat down at his desk with the intention of reading his morning correspondence. As with every element of his neatly organized life, reading letters was an activity, that had its own, strictly followed timeframe (right after breakfast) and was always executed with the same method. Firstly, my friend was stacking them into a perfect little pile, which – I must add here, I could never grasp the purpose of. Putting aside the sheer pointlessness of the act, Georges the valet already had the habit of stacking the letters on top of Poirot’s desk in an almost perfect, symmetrical manner upon the correspondence’s arrival. Well, apparently ‘almost’ made a huge difference to my dear Poirot.  
A observant reader who, as my well-organized friend would say, ‘uses the little grey cells’, have probably realized by now that I, Arthur Hastings, only pretend to be annoyed with Poirot’s eccentric mannerisms. In all honesty, I do find them endearing.   
But I digress (which tends to happen to me quite frequently these days, whenever I try to write about Poirot). Let us return to the scene from that faithful morning. Poirot sits at his desk in order to read his correspondence. He arranges the letters into a neat little pile. Then, he takes the envelope from the very top, carefully opens it with the envelope cutter and begins to read the letter hidden within it. At this point in the process, he makes the decision about the fate of the message. Poirot carefully folds the paper sheet, places it back into the envelope, that it came in and puts it on top of one of three separate stacks. I assume, that the biggest stack will soon be placed in the hands of miss Lemon, who will then write tactful but firm refusal letters to their senders. After all, it is a commonly known fact, that my famous friend only accepts the most unusual of cases – and he was soon to be given a case worthy of his time.   
Observing Poirot’s morning routine was fascinating. It had always instilled a sense of calm and stabilization in me. Today however, I was nervous. I kept on curiously glancing over my newspaper at the man, who was now opening the letters. I was curious, on which of the three stacks did Poirot place the letters, that I kept sending him while I was abroad? Was it, by chance, the same one, that the letters from his female admirers kept being placed on? Or did the latter category of correspondence have its own, separate space dedicated to it? Again with that daydreaming – I mentally scolded myself. Poirot would reprimand me for paying so much attention to such trivial details.  
Poirot kept on making comments regarding the letters, that he was currently reading:  
“Dear Hastings, is there some kind of a secret conspiracy among the upper class women, that I am not aware of? They keep on messaging me on the matter of their missing dogs. This is, if I am not mistaken, the third such case this month!”  
“I say!” I glanced at him over today’s release of the Daily Newsmonger “They have carefully devised a plan to fake the disappearance of their Pekingese dogs in order to inconvenience one Hercule Poirot!”  
“Oh how sarcastic you have been today.” Observed my companion, giving me a slightly scolding smile. “It is not exactly what I had in mind, _mon ami_. I simly came to a logical conclusion, that somebody must have recommended my services to these ladies. I was merely being curious about the identity of our _gentille dame_.   
Poirot was right: my attempts at joking went rather poorly today. I tended to be quite sarcastic when I was being nervous.  
“Or perhaps, one or two of those ladies are simply fond of you and want to get your attention in some way?” I suggested hoping, that a bit of praise would soften my previous sarcastic retort.  
Poirot gave me an amusing smile. Bingo.  
“Forever a romantic! It is who my Hastings is! Sadly, Poirot has to disappoint you, _mon cher_. Perhaps, you yourself are knowledgeable enough in the topic of women to know, what is the social class, that the ladies who express the emotional attachment to their dogs, belong to?”  
I did not respond. The only thing, that came to my mind was the thought, that he was wrong: I wasn’t disappointed. On the contrary.   
Interpreting my silence as an inability to give him an answer, Poirot answered his own question:  
“Aforementioned group consists purely of married women, who are suffering loneliness after their children, as you English say, ‘flee the nest’.” He let out a long sigh. “Your theory sounds way more appealing than the truth, _mon ami_.” He proceeded to place the letter on the ‘denied’ stack. “_Eh bien_, let us continue.”   
He read a few more letters out loud. There was nothing of interest in them. Another ‘primitive and completely ordinary’ theft of expensive jewelry, a thief of commemorating china committed by a noble lady’s companion, and after that, I was subject to yet another one of Poirot’s lectures, regarding Poirot’s disdain to the mere idea of him spying a husband for an overly jealous wife.   
Poirot reached for another letter. I was watching him as he was opening the envelope, carefully taking the sheet of paper out of it.  
“_Mon Dieu!_” He cried out after barely glancing at it.   
“What happened? What’s this?”  
He did not respond, too busy reading. I was observing the changes in his expressions, trying to get some sort of clue out of them. At first, his eyebrows spiked up and for a brief moment he looked confused. It didn’t last for long – I could see the tension leave his body, his expression shifting back to a more neutral one. His eyes however… My God, his eyes! They had that characteristic, green gleam to them: a cat-like curiosity, as I used to call that particular expression in my mind. Poirot has found his intriguing case.   
When he approached me with the letter in hand, he still had that cat-like expression. I gulped.  
“Hastings, can you take a look at this?”   
“Good Lord, Poirot, is someone blackmailing you?! We should telephone Japp immediately!”  
“Calm down, Hastings. You might want to read the contents of this letter first.”  
I did as I was instructed. The message looked like a typical threat letter – it was put together from various letters, that were cut out from a newspaper. Even though they were cut out with careful precision, they still contrasted with the elegant writing paper, which they were glued to (into perfectly straight rows of text, I must add). And the contents? It was not a threat but an exact opposite of one. I read the text out loud:

“DEAR MR POIROT,  
I WOULD NEVER DARE TO CONFESS THIS IN PERSON, HOWEVER YOU SHOULD KNOW, THAT YOU HAVE STOLEN MY HEART. I ADORE YOU AS STRONGLY AS IT IS PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE FOR A MAN TO ADORE ANOTHER MAN.  
FOREVER YOURS,  
YOUR SECRET ADMIRER.”

Reading those words out loud caused me some distress, but I managed to bravely get to the end – I had to. I could feel my cheeks burning in embarrassment.   
I redirected my sight from the message to Poirot, who has been observing me as I was reading. I kept staring at him, speechless.   
“So what do you make of this,_ mon cher?_ Now that you are aware of the true nature of this latter?”  
“My God, Poirot, it’s a love letter! And from… a man, no less!”  
“_Oui_.”  
“And on top of that, it’s patched together from newspaper letters, like some sort of anonymous threat!”  
_“C’est curieux, n’est ce pas?_ A love letter, that was constructed in a way, that makes it impossible to find out who the sender is. I used to send and receive love letters in the past, however a love letter written using the method of a criminal? This is a first time for Poirot!”  
“And on top of that, from a man…” I risked.  
Poirot was regarding me silently for a moment.  
“I can see, that you are scandalized. There are a lot of different individuals living in this world, _mon ami.”_  
“No, no, I’m not scandalized personally.” I said tactfully “But you, Poirot, you are a catholic… That sort of… situations must be upsetting to you.”  
“_Mon cher_,” He gave me a warm smile. “Hercule Poirot is following a certain principle in his life, for one must combine two important qualities in oneself: strong personal values and an open mind. One of those qualities should not exist without the other. Otherwise one will fall into extremes and lose the sight of the truth. And that would be an attitude unfit of a private detective, _n’est ce pas?_”  
My expression must had shown an excessive level of frustration, because Poirot started to laugh quietly.  
“And to answer your _real_ question: no, _mon ami_. I am not opposed to being an object of male adoration.”  
His expression was calm, but there was, undoubtedly, a playful glint in his eye.  
Poirot turned around and walked towards his desk with neat little steps. Very carefully, he folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope. Then, with utmost care, he put it into one of the drawers of his desk. Yet another riddle that has been solved today: for I was shown a place, where the letters from Hercule Poirot’s admirers were being kept… I felt the sting of jealousy. I could imagine my elegant friend, perfectly dressed and going out for a meeting with the secret admirer from the letter. Knowing Poirot, he would probably encounter a poet with a quick, clever mind and criminal tendencies. Or a smart, fancy count with a brave, patriotic heart, who has found himself in trouble and who needs a detective to aid him in his quest for rightfulness. I couldn’t imagine, that any other type of a man, would be able to enamor Poirot. I knew this and that about his preference when it came to women, but men? I was clueless as to thom he might find attractive! Dear Lord, I had just barely discovered, that Poirot could be attracted to men!  
“Hastings, Hastings… do not allow the assumptions to cloud your view of the situation.” Poirot’s voice brought me back to reality.  
“What do you intend to do with this letter?” I could feel myself blushing.   
“Nothing, _mon ami_. I have placed it among my other memorabilia, so that I can keep coming back to it.” Seeing the persisting question in my look, he added “And what do you want me to do? What do you propose, Hastings?”  
I was battling with myself for a moment.  
“I propose, that you consider this case, you know, give it some thought. Poirot wouldn’t be himself if he passed on such an interesting case, am I right?” Those were my honest thoughts. The sender of this letter surely had to take into consideration, that he was writing his letter to a highly talented detective from London. He had to be aware, that despite his utmost efforts, Poirot would eventually get a clue about his whereabouts. Of course, it would take him some time, but…  
“Indeed, my friend. The case, it is a curious one and I would not be myself if I haven’t solve it already.”  
The words of the Belgian detective shocked me. I kept staring at him, completely dumbfolded.  
“Excuse me?”  
“I was saying, _mon ami_, that Poirot’s clever little grey cells have already solved the mistery behind the love letter.”  
“But… you have just received this letter a few moments ago! How on earth did you… Do you know the types of fonts that are being used by every popular newspaper by heart? Or perhaps you can deduce how old was the newspaper, that had been used for this letter, by the color of the ink?”  
Poirot smiled in amusement.  
“No, _mon cher_! However, your high regard for my detective skills makes me feel incredibly flattered.  
_Flattered_. Ah yes, I have noticed this about myself recently. Flattering my companion brought the best results when I wasn’t trying to do so at all and instead, I was sharing an honest thought about him spontaneously. Sometimes though, I wished that I could compliment Poirot in a way that was…, shall I say, more adequate to his profession and interests.  
Once again, Poirot strolled through his elegant office and came to a stop a few footsteps away from the sofa, that I was sitting on. Our eyes met, his expression inscrutable.   
“Would you like me to untangle this conundrum for you? _Bien!_ Allow me to pay my utmost respect to my secret admirer’s creativity and get to the very bottom of this case, as he (I am convinced it is so!) has expected me to.  
Every detective would tell you, that the starting point of our little investigation should be the letter itself. And quite an unusuall letter it is. As you were kind enough to point out, it resembles a threat with its construction. The contents however, are far removed from a threat – and this is precisely what has given our mysterious sender a reason to send his confession in such unusual manner. You see, _mon ami_: there is a man, who has developed a forbidden affection towards an elegant, famous, Belgian detective. He does not know Poirot well enough to risk confessing his feelings directly. Think about it, would it be wise to put yourself into such danger, when you are dealing with a person, who staysin close contact with the police and Scotland Yard? Without even knowing if the object of your desire has a fondness for men at all? If you were in his position, would you do it? _Jamais de la vie!_  
The second reason for choosing this form of correspondence was most likely an alibi.”  
“Alibi?” I asked, clueless. I had a suspicion, that Poirot hadn’t really come up with any real conclusions so far. He was merely stating the obvious.   
“Percisely, Hastings. Our _le anonyme_ wanted to give himself some sort of alibi. Do you not understand? Don’t worry. It will all become clear soon enough. By this point, we have discovered what was the point of the letter: to allow someone, a man, to confess his feelings to Poirot without having his identity discovered.”  
“But Poirot, don’t you think, that this is pointless? The chap sends you a confession letter knowing, that you won’t be able to track down the sender. He won’t even know what was your reaction to his letter!”  
“Oui, that’s why I am going to propose a daring hypothesis: the author of this letter is somebody, that I know.” Seeing, that I opened my mouth in an attempt to protest, he added quickly “Of course, I know what you want to say, _mon ami_ and you are absolutely correct. Due to the nature of my profession, I know a lot of people, of which many are, naturally, men. It would be impossible, pointless even to look into the background of every single one of them, especially since we are dealing with a matter of such delicate nature… I am convinced however, that through the systematic ordering of the facts, we might be able to narrow down the group of sus- , I mean, the potential adorators of Poirot.” He got lost in his thoughts for a moment. “Ah yes, systematicness and order: the two greatest tools in the hands of a detective. It is an impossibility to work without them! And sadly, it just so happens, that disarray is starting to sneak into Poirot’s life!” He said dramatically.   
“Disarray? Where? Your home is more tidy than a museum!” I retorted, amused by his lamentations. Poirot was so hopelessly pedantic! But I liked him regardless.   
“Yesterday, for instance! Miss Lemon spent half of her workday complaining, that she had lost her scissors! Can you imagine, Hastings?”  
“S-scissors?”  
“Yes, precisely, scissors. She was trying to explain herself by stating, that he scissors were not inside the middle drawer of her desk, where she had placed them two days ago! Because of this, she was unable to cut out the _étiquettes_ for her catalogues and that, _ma foi !_ Has influenced her mood and the quality of the tisane, that she made for me ! As I always say, Hastings, disarry spreads easily but when it manages to take root...”  
“So what happened to the scissors ?”I interrupted him “Perhaps, she has simply put them in a different place this time?”  
“Miss Lemon? _Mon ami_, that is completely unlike her! Thank goodness, that she managed to find them at last: my palate would not be able to withstand another portion of the bitter tisane! Why are you looking at me like that? Right, I slightly digress. Let us return to the ordering of the facts, then. Let us try to establish the order of events: our romantic anonym takes the scissors, a newspaper and begins to work on his task.  
He cuts out the letters from the newspaper with an utmost care so that, despite the crudeness of his chosen correspondence form, the letters would still look neatly. He even decides to use a sheet of expensive writing paper – after all, he is writing a love letter! I am also certain, that he made sure, that he won’t leave his fingerprints, both on the paper and on the letters themselves. After all he knew, that he was dealing with a detective!”  
“So you think, that he bought the newspaper solely with the intentsion of cutting it for that letter he sent you?” I asked curiously. Poirot didn’t respond right away. He sent me a perspicacious glance.  
“I do not think so. Perhaps, he was reading said newspaper when he came up with the idea. When he did, he made sure to not leave his fingerprints on this part of the newspaper, that he decided to use.”  
“How so?”  
“You don’t know, Hastings?” He smiled innocently. His eyes however, were shining dangerously.  
And that was when I had realized, beyond any doubt, that Poirot knew the truth. The _whole_ truth.  
“Let me think, Poirot!” I accepted the challenge. “Perhaps he realized, thile holding the newspaper, that his hands were placed in the middle of the sheets? And that’s why he chose to use only the parts of the paper, that were above or below that level?” Two can play the game: I could be as clever and cunning as ma famous friend. I yearned to prove it to him.  
“Excellent, Hastings! You harnessed the power of your little grey cells and came to a plausible conclusion.” He praised.  
I did my best to conceal my satisfaction.  
“_En vérité_, he could have done it that way. And yet… it is not the method, that has chosen.”  
“But Poirot, these are only your assumptions! You have nothing that would prove, that your theory is correct, that my theory is incorrect, or that, I don’t know, the chap was holding his newspaper upside down! ‘Do not allow the assumptions to cloud your view of the situation’ – isn’t that what you have told me a few a few minutes ago?” Oh how proud I was of my own retort!  
“I can see, that you are starting to employ my methods, _mon ami_. Poirot, he does like it when Hastings accepts the challenge instead of resigning. However, you still have a lot to learn, my clever student.” He smiled dangerously. There was something so attractive in that smile, that it made me swallow. I felt the rush of adrenaline.   
“What are you getting at, Mister Professor?” I teased “Is there a method in this madness?”  
“It is not madness, but pure practicality with a dose of ingenuity. And the latter is something, that _le anonyme_ has a lot of.”  
“What is the ‘practicality’ of this fellow all about, then?”  
“Hastings, I ask of you to imagine a scene. Imagine, that you are a man saddled with the feelings of passion. You are reading the morning newspaper, page after page. Let us assume, that you come across the social segment, which is typically located towards the beginning of the newspaper. And let us also assume, that you see an interesting announcement. It might sound something like this:   
‘A lady is looking for a gentleman who, on march 21th, sent her an anonymous letter at so and so address. Please contact me.’  
Instinctively, you start to think about your secret sympathy and the means, with you yourself would use, while writing a love letter to him. The letter, anonymity, newspaper – voilà! A plan was born. But wait! You have already opened the newspaper and left your fingerprints on it! The man who keeps on persistently appearing in your thoughts is a well-known detective. What if he takes fingerprints from the latter? The admirer needed to use the pages, that he didn’t touch yet. And so, he decides to use the pages located exactly in the middle, because that way you would remember, that those were the pages without your fingerprints.  
And now, allow me to present a theory: our anonymous admirer was not alone in the room. He didn’t want to cast suspicion upon himself. What to do? He should keep reading his newspaper like he always does, in order to make everything look natural. However, he cannot touch the valuable middle pages! So what does he do? He continues to read the newspaper, while avoiding the pages in the middle!”  
Poirot looked directly into my eyes:  
_“Ça vous dit quelque chose?”_  
I was speechless for a good few minutes. There was only one thought going through my mind: I was a complete fool. Hiding my emotions has always been my weak spot. I tried so hard to outsmart Poirot, that I ended up overdoing it!  
My companion, who up until this point kept explaining the facts with a professional tone of a detective, finally couldn’t keep a straight face anymore: he started to chuckle. I knew, that a blush was creeping up my face and I was absolutely sure, that my reaction pleased him. Further denying the obvious has become pointless.   
“How…? Was the newspaper what gave me away?” I wanted to turn his attention away from the crux of the matter. I felt as if I was one of the criminals, who have been damasked by Poirot. And now, with my heart in my throat, I awaited my sentence.  
Poirot sat on the sofa beside me.  
“You see, Hastings, every detective would tell you, that the starting point of the investigation should be the letter itself – that is every detective aside from Hercule Poirot! Remember when I said, that everything will become clear soon? Allow me to put together the facts, like the pieces of a cut newspaper and you, _mon cher ami_, will tell me if I have placed them in a correct order.   
Your behavior yesterday has caught my attention. You are always eager to read the Daily Newsmonger from start to finish. That day however, you had only read the first pages and the end pages. My second clue was the newspaper, that had disappeared the same day it was bought. Hastings resolutely throwing away the old issues of newspapers? That is unlike you! Usually, they keep piling up on the sofa or, good grief! On top of the drawer until I personally throw them away. I started to secretly hope, that perhaps you had finally decided to change your habits. However, your manner of reading the newspaper made me think that it is not so. And then, the scissors disappeared from the drawer of miss Lemon’s desk! Now the number of little coincidences was too high to be ignored by Poirot! Meanwhile, the scissors mysteriously find their way back to miss Lemon’s desk, but land in a different drawer than the one she originally kept storing them in. _Oh lá á!_ – I thought – my dear Hastings is up to something! I intended to ask you about this today after breakfast, but then the letter came in.”  
“…And by this point you were hundred percent sure.” I mumbled, feeling defeated but fascinated at the same time.  
“_Oui_. First of all, you gave yourself away by subconsciously directing our conversation to the topic of my secret admirers before I even got a chance to read your letter!”  
“Ah. Yes, that was really stupid of me.” I admitted quietly “But how on earth did you know, that I was inspired by the announcement in the social column?!” I couldn’t believe, that he has found out about this as well!  
“It was quite simple, _mon ami_. The same announcement keeps showing up in your Daily Newsmonger for three months in a row now.”  
“What about that ‘alibi’ you kept mentioning earlier?” I asked impatiently.  
“Ah, right, I promised, that we would come back to this. You gave yourself a clever alibi: at first glance, the letter looked like a threat message and you reacted accordingly. As if it indeed was one: a spontaneous reaction a innocent bystander who is clueless about the situation! You were very convincing…, except that your behavior as a whole today has betrayed you. You were nervous and more sarcastic than usually… Ah! _Je vous demande pardon, mon cher ami!_ I got so lost in my analysis of the facts, that I allowed you to further suffer the uncertainty! I had to, however, pay proper respect to my admirer and dedicate as much time and effort to this case, as he did while preparing this little, clever spectacle for me. So, without further ado, let us get to the crux of the matter…  
Poirot leaned closer, so that our elbows were almost touching. He took my hand into his.  
“_Mon courageoux ami_, your affection, expressed in such a unique way is, naturally, being reciprocated. I too, have been infatuated with you for a long time now.” He confessed, tightening his grip on my hand.  
My heart stopped for a moment. I was looking into his face, searching for something, anything indicating, that he was joking. I did not find such thing. The man was looking back at me with a serious expression… and awaited my answer! But I couldn’t utter a word. Good Lord! Was this really happening?!  
I cleared my throat. Calm down, Hastings. This is exactly what you wanted. And now, you have to act like a man.  
“For real? Are you serious?” Still, I wanted to make sure…  
Poirot sent me an offended glance.  
“Do you think, that I could make a game out of such a serious matter? After you have put so much effort into impressing me?! I am completely serious, _bien sûr!_”  
It had occurred to me, that he was being nervous. I wasn’t the only anxious one here… This realization made me feel braver.  
“I’m glad, because I really do care about you. ‘I adore you as strongly as it is physically possible for a man to adore another man.’” I already said those words out loud once today. I decided, that they needed to be spoken once more – not by the mysterious admirer, but by Arthur Hastings.  
“Likewise, my Arthur: _je vous adore_.” He murmured into my ear.  
His voice, low from emotion, his breath tickling my ear, the smell of his cologne… I was unable to restrain myself any further. I crossed the remaining millimeters of the pesky distance between us and kissed him. Never before in my life, had I ever wanted to kiss anybody as desperately as I longed to kiss Poirot at the moment. However, I kept my desire in check, kissing him tenderly, almost shyly. I allowed him to decide whether he wanted something more. My beloved gladly took the opportunity and deepened the kiss. I have to admit, that Hercule Poirot has many talents. The art of kissing definitely classifies as one of them.  
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. And so, my self control flew out of the window. We continued to explore each other for a few blissful moments, that seemed to last all eternity. Finally, albeit reluctantly, we parted in order to catch our breaths.   
“What you have done, _mon adoré_, was very brave and creative.” He said, still trying to catch his breath. “And so incredibly romantic!”  
“I still can’t believe it myself.” I admitted. “However, I couldn’t have done it any other way.”  
“Of course. After all, you didn’t know if I would return another man’s feelings. This is the reason why I also restrained myself from acting on my feelings. Who would have thought, that you would be one step ahead of me and confess first! _Oh lá á, mon cher_ Hastings is capable of devising intrigues akin to most refined of criminals!”  
“’Reclined’ rather…” I snorted. “Look, I know, that you appreciate the gesture, but you can be honest with me. I am aware, that my plan was rather weak. You managed to see right through me in less than ten minutes.” I admitted this without regret. There was no shame in losing to Poirot, especially if one was to receive a consolation prize in form of a kiss…  
“And yet, you did manage to surprise the famous detective, _mon cher_.” He smiled a mysterious smile.  
“Really? How so?”  
“With the mere fact, that you do have feelings for me. You see, Poirot was convinced, that his dear friend Hastings could only be swayed by the chestnut-haired women!”  
“And I was sure, that you only felt attracted to corpulent women, in the type of _‘la bone meré’_. Or perhaps also to highly elegant men with a scientific mind and criminal tendencies.”  
Poirot let out a hearthy laugh.  
“My Hastings has wild imagination! _Non, mon amour_, the type of man who is able to elict a sigh of awe from Poirot is a strong, honest captain, who happens to poses a natural charm, that could never be replicated by some refined fellow with a scientific mind. You, mon amour, are exactly the type of man, who Poirot could be – and is! Swayed by.”  
My face turned bright red. My God, could I really be in his type? In the type of this walking ideal of a man?!  
Seeing my expression, Poirot smiled. His eyes were glimmering.  
“Well, it does seem like we both had a slightly inaccurate picture of each other, _n’est ce pas?_”  
“I say! I’m so glad that we finally talked about this!” I said happily and wrapped my arms around my Poirot, pulling him close possessively. The elegant man rested his head on my shoulder. “I bet I amuzed you with my sneaky little crime attempt, huh?”  
“On the contrary, _mon adoré_. I was touched to the bottom of my heart. I do admit, that as a criminal puzzle, it was but a trifle, but do not get discouraged by this: _ca n’a pas d’importance._ As a certain saying goes, what matters is the intention. And my Arthur had noble intentions, he certainly did!” He gave me a dreamy look. “I am well aware, that it is not easy to follow my trail of logic during the investigations. Poirot, he does know how frustrating it is for you to understand my deductions and methods. This is why I do appreciate what you have done for me. You employed your little grey cells and devised a riddle for Poirot, doing everything that you physically could, in order to make it difficult to solve. _Mon Dieu_, you even thought about the fingerprints!”  
“But… forgot about the scissors.” I mumbled. Poirot probably didn’t hear it though.  
“You did all, that you could in order to communicate in Poirot’s language, and in this language you have constructed your confession: as an interesting, romantic case for a private detective. And this is what has touched me. In the end, you have been betrayed by your natural honesty of expression, but that is a good thing. That honesty is precisely what has allowed you to steal the heart of Hercule Poirot.” He took my hand and held it to his lips, kissing it.   
“Oh my goodness, Poirot, you abash me…” I blushed to the tips of my ears.  
“_Mon adoré_, I am merely stating the truth!” He kissed the tip of my ear with a hum of satisfaction. “You should believe in yourself more. “He whispered into my ear, making me tremble with excitement.  
“I’m afraid, that you will have to help me out with this one…” I suggested with a grin.  
“With utmost pleasure, _mon amour…_” He purred like a cat and covered my lips with his. I responded eagerly. It was starting to get hot and pleasant, when suddenly the doorbell rang.  
We jumped away from each other in surprise. Poirot cleared his throat and attempted to fix his clothes, that have become disheveled in a moment of passion (and I can proudly say, that it was my doing).  
“_Un moment!_” He shouted while critically judging his appearance in front of the mirror.  
I stood up from the sofa. Poirot immediately guided me towards the mirror and proceeded to fix my hair and tie.  
“We have to always look presentable, _mon amour_. Let us hurry! Our client is waiting.”  
However, he was mistaken. It wasn’t a client. The person standing outside our door was no one other than chef inspector Japp himself.   
“You must be getting old, my friend!” He stated, greeting Poirot. “I have been waiting for ten minutes for you to straggle to the door.”  
I turned my face away, trying not to laugh. Japp had no idea how l i v e l y Poirot could be…  
“Perhaps, you are correct, _mon ami._” My beloved answered with a stoic calmness. “It is truly fortunate, that I didn’t get old in every aspect, isn’t that right, Hastings?” He sent me an innocent smile and I responded with a little innocuous smile of my own. “The little grey cells are still working as they should and, I assume, they are the ones, that you wish to consult?_ Eh bien_, please take a seat.”  
“No thanks, I’d rather stand. You two though, might want to sit down before I knock you off your feet with what I’m about to say.”  
“What could have possibly happened in the criminal world this time?” I asked, truly curious.  
“We have a murder, a suicide or perhaps an unfortunate accident – we aren’t sure which one is it yet. In any case, we have a body. A well-known thief has died after drinking a cup of tea, which she had prepared for herself in a china service, that she managed to steal one week ago.”  
“Good Lord!” I gasped. “Wait a second…, where have I heard about stolen china before?”  
“I read about it out loud to you, _mon ami_.” Poirot reminded. “Mrs Beverly from Herbville wrote a letter to me, regarding this matter. She wants me to recover the precious china for her. I suspect, that it is the same china service, that was found at the scene of the crime, that you are investigating. Isn’t that right, Japp?”  
He redirected his curious eyes to Japp who, in turn, let out a long, exasperated sigh.  
“So you are ahead of me on the case yet again?”  
“My sincere apologies, Japp. Perhaps next time luck will be on your side.”  
“Ah, whatever.” He shrugged carelessly. “I need your help, Poirot. Old lady Beverly is a tough one. Once she saw me, she has decided, that she has nothing to say to me! No amount of pleading and threatening is capable of braking her resolve and we know for a fact, that she’s withholding some important information.”   
“What is it, that you expect out of Poirot’s humble self then, inspector?”  
I sent him a glare. In no way was Poirot the type of person, who I would call ‘humble’. I decided to keep that comment to myself.  
“I want to send you there, let’s say, incognito.” Said Japp. “Actually, it’s a good thing, that she reached out to you herself. Officially, you are going there at her personal request and you don’t know anything about no murder. Unofficially… you know what to do. That sort of thing is your bread and butter. So what do you say, Poirot?”  
“We have a deal, _mon ami_. I am in a really good mood today so I will gladly aid you in solving this case, Japp.”  
“And what was it, that has put you in such a good mood, my friend? Oh well, whichever divine force was responsible for it, I should probably pay it my utmost respect.” He joked. Poirot ignored the remark.  
“We’re packing our bags, Hastings! We’re leaving immediately.” He decided. “Ah and since we are already on the topic of packing and carrying things out, please remember to carry out those cut pieces of newspaper from the drawer of your nightstand upon our return. I understand, that you found a new interest these days, but I ask of you to keep it in check. As I always say, Hastings, disarray spreads easily but once it manages to take root, it is extremely difficult to uproot.   
I could feel myself blushing, like a student scolded by his teacher. How on earth, did he know all those things?!   
Japp sent me a questioning look.  
“Paper planes.” I mumbled, unable to come up with anything else on a whim.  
“Oh.” He nodded with a puzzled expression. He probably thought, that I was an utter imbecile.  
“Our Hastings has artistic tendencies.” Poirot added, giving me a friendly pat on the back. “And now, we shall embark on our quest.”  
We packed our things in a hurry and left in Japp’s company. On one hand, I was filled with regret at the thought, that I wasn’t given more time alone with Poirot now, that out mutual adoration has been made clear. However, on the other hand, I was way too happy with the results achieved by my love letter for anything to be able to ruin my mood. I was full of energy and ready to act at my Poirot’s side, whenever fate was about to lead us this time.  
And fate has prepared quite a surprise for us indeed. This is, however, a story for another time.

-FIN

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
1\. "Mon ami" - "my friend”  
2\. "Gentille dame" - “Kind lady”  
3\. "Mon cher" - “My dear (Hastings)”  
4\. "Eh bien" - “Oh well”  
5\. "Mon Dieu!" - “My God!”  
6\. "Oui" - “Yes.”  
7\. "C’est curieux, n’est ce pas?" - “That’s interesting, isn’t it?”  
8\. "n’est ce pas?" - “Isn’t it?”  
9\. "Bien!" - “All right!”  
10\. "Jamais de la vie!" - “Not on your life!”  
11\. "le anonyme" - “Anonym”   
12\. "étiquettes" - “Labels”  
13\. "Ma foi!" - Here: “Good grief!”  
14."En vérité" - “That’s right”  
15\. voilà!" - "“There!”  
16\. "Ça vous dit quelque chose?" - “Does this sound familiar to you?”  
17."Je vous demande pardon, mon cher ami!" - “I ask for your forgiveness, my dear friend!”  
18\. “Mon courageoux ami" - “My brave friend”  
19\. "bien sûr!" - “Of course!”  
20\. "je vous adore." - “I adore you.”  
21\. "mon adoré" - “My adored/my love”   
22\. "la bone meré" - “A good mother” – yes, according to some book descriptions by Christie, this seems to be his type. Coincidentally, we also do know what type of men he finds aesthetically pleasing…  
23\. "Non, mon amour" - “No, my love”  
24\. "ca n’a pas d’importance." - “It doesn’t matter”  
25\. "un moment!" - “One moment!”


End file.
